Peek Into My Femdom Mind | Femdom Erotica | Male Submission

“I don’t like the things that you do to me, but I like what it does to you.”

These simple words. Music to my ears. Words as powerful as “I love you.” When a man says something like that to me, after he has endured tight bondage, intense pain and a thorough trampling of his pride, I am in heaven.

Such bravery. Sacrifice. Willingness to endure in order to get me to that place where I need to be.

No, submission is not easy. If you have thought in your past that submission is the way because it means you are free from decision, accountability or action, you are very wrong. At least, with a woman like me.

My submissives do have a responsibility. They have the responsibility of feeding a very dark desire of mine. That means not only enduring what I dish out, but getting into my head and figuring out what it is I need, and getting me there.

Walking, willingly, into a torture chamber.

It hits me hardest when I have rendered him completely helpless. We both know it. He knows he cannot get away, and he can see it in my eyes – I am starting to formulate what I intend to do to him. Sitting on his lap, facing him, straddling him with my skirt hiked up just around my hips.

Heat.

Holding him by the chin – but not affectionately. No, this time it is possessively. He already can sense it. He is being slowly objectified.

“I’m going to hurt you.” I say things like that. I say them with intent, and without hesitation. Stroking his lips with my fingertip to see if he will try to squirm away. Maybe prying his mouth open and forcing him to let me kiss him – my way – while he just squirms against my body.

The slow stripping away of everything that he once had. A possessive way of handling his cock, a relentless assault on his mouth with mine. Two fists in his hair, pulling his head back until it stings his eyes.

“I am going to make you cry.”

These words – they mean a lot to me. He has to hear them, and he has to understand that they are real. They are what I am. They define me – when I am in this mood. Just saying them and seeing the look in his eyes is almost enough for me. I may touch myself while I sit on his lap, I may tease and taunt him with my fingertips and make him beg for a taste.

Letting my fingers linger on my lips, I ask, “What would you do for a taste?’

I might make him beg. I might make him ask to be leashed, led around like a puppy and play fetch with me. I might want to trample him, beat him, make him lick the floor that I have walked upon.

“Do you want to watch me masturbate?’

I humiliate him. I make him admit he is a scared little boy and I make him admit he knows he is going to cry. I finger the leather cat in front of him and tell him I am going to use it on his back until he’s begging, pleading for mercy. At least, what he can through a balled up pair of soiled panties in his mouth and a piece of duct tape over his lips.

“Do you want me to wear a big latex dick, and force you to suck on it?”

So many ideas. I run them by him and I touch myself as I do. This is just foreplay for me. Foreplay because I intend to do quite a lot. I sit on his lap, playfully, legs open wide. And when his eyes wander down to peak I slap him. I backhand him and shake a finger at him and tell him that a gentleman would not sneak a glance.

He knows there have been times where I sit across from him and force him to watch me pleasure myself. A long, drawn out exhibitionist act, an act that he will find uncomfortable soon because every time he blinks or turns his head, he will be beaten a little more after I have cum.

He stammers. Words just do not come out. I laugh at him, at how startled he is. Twelve seconds left, and he is barely getting his first word out. I walk around him in 5 inch heels, my skirt is tight, he can see the tops of my stockings and a hint of my garters. My hair is down this time, all around my shoulders and back, and he can barely look at me let alone come up with a way to soak my panties in — well– eight seconds now.

“I’m so fucking scared right now,” he says.

And he wins. That time.

I tease him with lingerie sometimes. Slowly slinking out of it only to dangle it in his face. I make him beg to suck on it, to lick it. I make him beg to lick my panties while I am still wearing them. Sometimes I sit on his face and use my silky crotch to smother him. A nice barrier. I can feel his tongue pushing the crotch of my panties right up inside me. It makes me tingle.

But these are not really what it is about for me. I do those things to make him feel weak. But the things I do for me, they are slightly more dark, more sinister.

“You are going to beg me to make you cry.”

I like to shock him with my capacity for cruelty. He blinks at me. He cannot believe this is the same woman that cuddled up to him the night before in tears because they had to put a cat to sleep on “ANIMAL ER”.

He cannot believe this is the same woman that sometimes packs him a lunch for work and slips in little love letters and a candy kiss.

He cannot believe this is the same woman that loves tickle and pillow fights.

But he knows it is real, and it is her. Just the other side of her. Still, the contrast shocks him every single time, and it takes a few minutes to pull himself together.

This is really what I am about. An adoring, affectionate woman. With a dark side. An evil streak.

I long to hear those words, and to see him endure for me. Just to please me. To prove to himself, and to me, that he can take it. That he is strong enough and brave enough.

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